


'cause now we're partners in crime

by owlvsdove



Category: Hawkeye (Comics)
Genre: Accidental Marriage, F/M, Waking Up in Vegas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-08
Updated: 2015-07-08
Packaged: 2018-04-08 09:22:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4299402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlvsdove/pseuds/owlvsdove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That's what you get for waking up in Vegas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	'cause now we're partners in crime

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jynersq](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jynersq/gifts).



 

As if the universe is a step ahead of her (and let’s be clear, it usually is), the first thing Kate does as she wakes up is sigh.

Not the contented, restful sigh of someone in their own bed after a good eight hours. An exasperated, long-suffering sigh pulled straight from unconsciousness.

Her hair is stuck in her eyelashes when she blinks open.

Cool white, high thread count, down feather.

And a wide wooden headboard.

And a long, muscular arm.

 

 

 

 

Listen, ‘ol Katie may be a tabloid-fodder high-society darling, but she’s never fed the unholy media hound. She’s got a sensible mind and really is only interested in how her outfits photograph. She has no taste for fanfare.

She’s an Avenger, after all.

“Young Avenger,” he corrects mindlessly.

She seethes in frustration.

 

 

 

 

She doesn’t bother covering herself.

She is half-naked but completely untouched; and this is a miracle considering the things her subconscious has been urging her towards even at her most sober.

Clint, however, when she began to stand on the bed and shriek, legs bare, slapped a hand too hard over his eyes, stinging his face red.

Dumbass.

 

 

 

 

“We’re in Vegas,” he states. Now he’s sitting up, legs swung over the edge of the bed, sheet pooled over his hips handsomely.

The same sheet is drawn unhandsomely over her head, like the little babushka-ed bubbes who feed pigeons at the park. She needs wisdom. She needs a spiritual connection or a commune with nature or something.

She needs to not be sitting here, Legally Fucking Married to Clint Fucking Barton.

 

 

 

 

“Where the hell is my dog?” he asks.

He seems more concerned about this than anything else.

 

 

 

 

As she was standing on the king-sized mattress, bemoaning her sorry existence, she was saying – _and I never even wanted to get married!_ And that’s the first time during her tirade that he interrupts her.

“Marriage is not so bad,” he says.

“You’re _divorced_.”

He shrugs and looks down.

So she continues her tongue-lashing.

 

 

 

 

“What do we do?” she asks. She hates herself for asking. She’s watched TV before. She knows what comes next.

“Get it annulled.”

“How do we do that?”

“Call your lawyer.” But he picks up the bedside phone and presses it to his ear jauntily.

“I don’t have a lawyer.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Your father has lawyers.”

She gives him the evilest eye she can manage with raccoon-ringed makeup.

“Hey, yeah,” he says into the phone. “It’s still morning, right? We need a truckload of bacon and a pot of coffee.”

“Two,” she says, holding up the right number of fingers.

“Two pots of coffee.” He waits. “Okay, one sec.”

He holds the phone out to her.

“What?”

“I can’t hear a damn thing.”

She takes the damn phone.

 

 

 

 

Simone starts texting him to see when he plans on coming back around the same time that Kate realizes she needs a tampon; so she clamps the door closed over him and trucks out in her mismatched, too-large clothes into the desert.

His car is here. She remembers vaguely saying _Barton, get your ass to California_ into a payphone that too many other people’s lips have touched, but that feels like ten years ago.

“America,” she says into her phone.

“Where the hell are you, Princess?”

“America,” she answers, and then she smirks at herself.

America sighs. “If you’re not gonna play ball, then why bother calling me?”

She sounds tired. She sounds really tired. Concern blooms in Kate’s chest like nightlock. She feels sick.

“Just needed to hear something real,” she says, teeth clenched tight, walking too slow for a city sidewalk. “You’re as real as they get.”

America says something else, but Kate took French. Useless.

“I think I’m gonna have to come home soon,” Kate says softly.

“Finally,” America says, rough as she can.

Kate hangs up before she can say anything else.

 

 

 

 

The frigid air of CVS pushes another wave of nausea over her. Her body had just adjusted to the sickly heat.

She skims down the aisles feeling too tender. She is a spectacle.

Why the fuck did she do this?

I mean, okay. She knows why she did it. She said it herself all those months ago: they are alike. And this is exactly the stupid-ass kind of thing that Clint Barton would do.

She feels like, whatever happened last night, she tricked herself. She deceived herself in some odd, painful way.

She grabs a box of tampons and two big bottles of water. And after the cashier gives her a bored-yet-pitying look while asking for her rewards card, Kate pulls a pair of crappy sunglasses from the rack by the register. She can’t look anyone in the eyes today.

 

 

 

 

When she returns, Clint has the TV on and a plate full of bacon on his lap. She sits down next to him, rests her head on his shoulder, and starts to eat.

“You have your own plate, Hawkeye.”

“We’re married, dummy. What’s yours is mine.” She smirks at herself again. She feels a little better.

 

 

 

 

“We should probably, you know.”

She looks up at him. Clint has stupidly long eyelashes.

“Go back home,” he finishes. “Deal with things.”

“Since when do you like to deal with things?”

That was a little mean, she knows.

“Things happened while you were California Dreamin’.”

“Oh my god. Did you… _grow up_?”

“I’ve been grown for a long time, girly.”

That sounded a lot more sexual than it needed to.

 

 

 

 

She puts her feet up on his dashboard despite his griping and twirls the little silver-lite wedding band around her ring finger.

He only lasts about two minutes of tense driving punctuated by _Crazy in Love_ before snapping.

“Stop fiddling with that thing.”

“I wonder how much they cost us?” she says automatically, waiting for a guess from him.

“Probably half a stick of gum,” he says gruffly. “They sell them at the chapel.”

“That’s convenient,” she reasons.

“Why are you still wearing it?”

“You’re wearing yours,” she points out.

He takes it off, wrists steering the car for a moment, and slams it down into the cup-holder between them.

Her eyes widen. “Are you freaking out right now?”

“You freaked out!” But his hands are white-knuckled.

“Yeah, I did. But then I got over it.” She’s amazed. “You’re having some sort of delayed reaction.”

He pulls over onto the dusty shoulder of the road.

“I need you to drive.” But as soon as he opens the door he slams it back closed. “Nevermind. I need to drive.”

“Clint?”

“What?”

“ _Drive_.”

He looks down to see her picking up his ring. She wiggles hers off her finger. She rolls the window down.

So he puts the car in drive.

And accelerates.

And accelerates.

And—

Kate whips them through the window and they go flying, landing on—landing on an armadillo’s ass, for all she cares.

She rolls the window up, and in the newly ballooned quiet Clint grins. Blinding.

 

 

 

 

“I’m gonna shove an arrow so far up your ass!” she shrieks. He deliberately turns his hearing aid off. She goes on even louder.

(The couple that survives the traffic on the Triboro Bridge together, stays together.)

 

 

 

 

When they finally arrive at their—his—no, _their_ (his?) apartment, Kate feels stale like day-old bread.

Clint immediately flops down on the couch, looking intent not to move for the next several days. Kate suppresses the insane urge to sit on his chest until he either dies or gives her something she wants.

She’s not sure what that something is yet.

“I’m gonna go take a bath,” she says. She doesn’t have to announce it. He doesn’t care. This is normal.

“You’ll fall asleep.”

Why does he know this? Why does he have the right to know this?

She just shrugs, and he doesn’t notice because his eyes are closed.

She has a feeling this feeling will stick to her skin no matter what she does. A new state of being.

She crawls into his bed and falls away.

 

 

 

 

She wakes up to doggie kisses.

And the Black Widow watching her amusedly.

She groans wordlessly.

“Oh good,” Natasha says. “You’re up.”

Kate groans again.

Nat hands her a full glass of water. “Drink.”

“I’m not hungover,” Kate protests.

“You need it anyway,” Nat shrugs, but she does it in the kind of way that doesn’t invite discussion. Kate sits up against the headboard and takes it. To her surprise, Nat sits with her on the other side of the bed, waiting.

Kate takes a few fast and sloppy gulps and tries not to feel like a child.

“You want a lift back to your apartment?” Nat asks quietly. Kate wonders if she knows what happened in California, or in Vegas, or if she just suspects something has shifted. Maybe she could see it on Clint’s face. Maybe he’s in the other room, waiting with baited breath to see what she chooses.

She looks down at her hands. To her ring finger. It’s the same as it always was. If she leaves, she will allow her vision to snap back into place like nothing ever happened.

“If you’re going my way,” Kate responds, getting up and shrugging her jeans on.

Nat grins, climbing off the bed and flicking her sunglasses back down. “Anytime, Hawkeye.”

 

 

 

 

Clint’s sleeping when they leave. He’s not even faking it this time.

 

 

 

 

America meets her at Starbucks with only mild complaining.

“So. How’ve ya been?”

Kate receives nothing short of a growl.

“I’ve been fine,” Kate offers. “Totally rational and reasonable. Nothing to report.”

America stays silent, waiting.

“You know that Katy Perry song?”

“Which one?” America asks, teeth clamped around her straw.

“ _Waking Up in Vegas._ ”

“Yeah.”

Kate nods, and then she grows her eyes and tilts her head, waiting for America to catch on.

America does. Oh, she does.

 

 

 

 

“What does one wear to a divorce lawyer’s office?”

“Red?” Billy offers from her bed. “Like, _cougar divorcee ready to move on from my cheating husband_ red?”

“Red’s not really my color.” She squints at her closet.

“Black, then? _Mourning the death of my marriage and subsequently my youth via LBDs and gin-and-tonics_?”

“That’s closer.”

“Well, you know you can’t wear purple.”

“Why not?” She turns to face him.

“Don’t you think that sends the wrong message?”

Kate suddenly feels massively uncomfortable. “Nothing happened. Nothing’s changing. This isn’t weird, this is _funny_.”

“Does it feel funny?”

She turns back around to face the closet. “Sometimes it does.” She means that.

“It’s not like you want to stay married, Kate. Right?”

She rifles blindly though her clothes. “Of course not. I just don’t want to be another one of Clint’s exes. Even if this is totally non-romantic and accidental.”

“It’s not like you tripped onto the altar and the priest pronounced you _Man And Wife_ before you could pick yourself up, Kate.”

“I kind of doubt there was a priest.”

She sees Billy sit up out of the corner of her eye, trying to command attention, so she ignores it.

“I’m just saying. Even though you claim you don’t remember—”

“I don’t!”

“—Something still led you there. Not just you, either. Both of you.”

Kate picks out a purple dress anyway.

 

 

 

 

“Was the marriage...consummated?”

Kate hates Clint’s lawyer. She’s a stern, tight-lipped woman named Anna, and she’s probably totally cool; except she’s showing way too much concern for Kate and that’s probably why Clint picked her.

“Of course not,” Kate says, and it sounds bad even to her own ears.

Clint’s wearing a monkey suit, and the formality of it is distracting the hell out of her. What is this? What the fuck is this?

“What the fuck is this?” She says out loud, and Clint seems to wake up all at once.

“Could you give us a minute?” he asks. His lawyer stands, and so does Kate’s.

“Kate—”

“Why did this become so weird and formal? You’re wearing a suit!”

“Kate—”

“It was just a harmless mistake. I feel like I’m being interrogated.”

“ _Kate—_ ”

“ _What_?”

“You left.”

She goes slack for a moment. “So?”

“ _So_ I’m just trying to take care of this. It was my mistake.”

She seethes with anger. “You didn’t do this alone; it was my mistake too! Everyone’s acting like I was forced to—” No, no. Don’t go down that road. “I don’t understand why we’re doing his right now! Nothing’s changed!”

“Kate. You don’t want to be married to me.”

She ignores him. “Why can’t we just go back to work?”

“This is always going to be a loose end, Katie.” He’s looking at her too hard, too desperately. “Unless we take care of it right now.”

And something in her snaps. “Fine!” She reaches across the wide table to take the folder from his lawyer’s stack of papers, flips to the last page, and signs it. “We’re all tied up now.”

And she stalks her away out of the room, past the whispering lawyers and into the elevator.

 

 

 

 

Patrolling is the only thing that always snaps her out of a funk. And she needs to be snapped out of this funk right fucking now.

She’s on someone’s rooftop underneath the safety blanket of darkness, and the cool wind of the warm night is lifting her hair in a way that’s a little goddess-y, if she’s being honest. And if feels a hell of a lot more empowering than the rest of her week has.

She sighs.

“How did you find me?” she asks the night.

She can imagine the blank look on his face. “Police scanner. _Hawkeye stopped an armed robbery on 57th and Park._ And it sure as hell wasn’t me, so.”

She keeps watch of the sky, looking for signs of trouble that don’t already directly involve herself.

“Do you remember anything?”

Clint knows what she’s referring to. “Bits and pieces,” he says gruffly.

Liar.

“You said that we belong together.” She tries not to sound like a jilted lover, resists crossing her arms in defense.

She can feel him trying to form a complete and mature thought. “And what do you think of that?”

“It’s true, Clint. Doesn’t matter what context.” And she shrugs a little. “We’re partners.”

“I get scared sometimes,” he says, and she forgets to breathe at this kind of confession. “That we’re so alike.”

“You didn’t make me this way. I was like this when you found me.” And she’s so sure. She’s _sure._ He can’t deny the degree to which she knows herself.

“On your carriage ride,” he says, and he’s remembering that one time he accosted her with the people skills of a paper bag.

“Yes,” she confirms, rolling her eyes.

“You broke into Avengers tower just to piss me off.”

“I”ve done worse for less,” she snaps.

She turns to fully face him now, overcome with the need to settle this.

“This is stupid, Clint; We need to—”

He’s a lot closer than she expected.

“Don’t,” she says automatically, and his eyes widen in shock like he didn’t think she would catch on. “Don’t fuck with me.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re right, I don’t want to be married.”

“Katie.”

“I’m just saying.”

“I know,” he whispers. And all at once she finds herself pressed to the door of the exit stairs, angry brick scraping at the cutouts of her suit. She’s a little occupied with other things, though. Katie’s got her hands full with this one.

 

 

 

 

“So have we been annulled?” she asks eventually.

He smirks.

“You signed somebody else’s divorce agreement. Anna gave it to me as a souvenir. I’m getting it framed.”

“Classic,” she deadpans.

 

 

 

 

And later still:

“You know.” He fiddles with her quiver. “I have our papers back at my apartment. If you wanted to come over and sign them.”

“ _Smooth_ , Barton.”

 


End file.
